Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  That thought made them tingle and grow heavy with anticipation. Odd that her body understood this better than she did—that it nurtured a primal reaction.

  When his warm palm did indeed cup her breast, she arched into it, wanting more.

  As if he understood the need spiraling upward within her, his touch grew firmer, adding to all the sensations.

  A knock on the door caused them to both freeze and pull back slightly. Their breaths sawed in and out of their lungs.

  “My lord, I have Atticus’s food,” the butler said.

  “Damnation,” Anthony mumbled.

  The parrot woke up and ruffed his feathers. Squawk.

  Realizing the butler intended to enter the room, Olivia rounded the desk, brushing her hands over her dress as if to remove the visible prints Anthony’s touch had caused. As she took her seat, he gave her a cursory glance as if assessing she didn’t look like she felt—thoroughly kissed.

  He sat as well and snatched the pen off his desk and appeared to examine the letter he’d dictated to her. “Enter.”

  Menders stepped into the room.

  Olivia picked up an invoice and perused it.

  Standing on his perch, Atticus squawked. “’Bout time, you scallywag!”

  The butler sniffed as if being reprimanded by a bird was beneath him and placed the bowl of nuts on the table where the cage was.

  “Thank you, Menders.”

  Menders stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Olivia felt the heat of Anthony’s gaze on her. She forced herself not to look up. Too many thoughts were going through her head. Thoughts of what she and Anthony had done before the butler knocked. She fought the urge to touch her tingling lips.

  The bird squawked and anxiously fluttered his wings, waiting to be transported like royalty on a palanquin.

  “Be patient, you rascal.” Anthony pushed his chair back with more force than necessary and strode to the bird.

  With his back to her, Olivia took the opportunity to watch him as he set his arm in front of the bird and the parrot climbed onto it. Her gaze settled on his large hands as she recalled how they’d touched her. The memory caused a burst of heat to rush through her. She forced her gaze to the brightly colored bird who bounced up and down, then to the invoice in her hand.

  * * *

  “Don’t push me today,” Anthony said to the parrot. “Otherwise, I might open a window, then close it after you’ve flown out.”

  The parrot made a chuckling sound as if he knew it an idle threat. Anthony set the bird onto the table next to the dish of nuts, while his mind tried to figure out what he should say to Olivia.

  Still unsure, he strode back to his desk. He could tell just by Olivia’s tense posture that she didn’t wish to discuss what had just transpired between them. But they could not bloody well ignore it.

  He sat and peered across the desk. She looked thoroughly distracted by the invoice she held, but he doubted she was.

  Good Lord, that kiss between them had seemed incendiary. He’d kissed women with passion before, but he couldn’t recall any making him feel so . . . What? Lustful? No. He’d felt that before in abundance. He liked women. Liked everything about them from their sweet scent to the soft curves of their bodies.

  So why had this seemed different? Frustrated by his own confusion, Anthony raked his fingers through his hair and tried to gather his scrambled thoughts. He peered at Olivia. There was something fresh about her. She was beautiful in her own way. And the hair he’d thought too bright upon meeting her now seemed lovely. He wanted to wrap his hands in it. How many times had he wondered how long it was and whether the silky mass covered her breasts when let down? His wicked thoughts had no place in their relationship; he could not afford to lose her.

  He cleared his throat.

  Olivia glanced up, and he saw how his rather unheeded kiss had caused her already sensual lips to look puffy. He needed to apologize. “Olivia—”

  A rap on the door halted his words.

  Anthony fought the urge to tell them to go away. “Yes, come in,” he said, more sharply than he wished.

  Menders stepped into the room; his brows lifted in puzzlement. “Forgive the interruption, my lord.” He held up the mail. “The post has arrived.”

  “Thank you, Menders.” Anthony outstretched his hand and waited for the man to once again leave. He’d just crossed the threshold when Grandmother appeared.

  Good Lord, what was this, Victoria Station?

  As she marched into the room, Atticus let loose another squawk. “Yo ho, danger ahead.”

  “Hush, you foolish bird!” Grandmother snapped. “Or I’ll send you to a taxidermist and give you as a gift to Queen Victoria. I’m sure she’d be pleased to add you to her collection of birds.”

  As if the parrot understood the threat, he made a sound like a gulp and tucked his head under his wing.

  Good Lord. Anthony blinked. The old woman had quieted the little beast with one threat. Or perhaps it was the steely look in her eyes that revealed she might not be making an idle remark.

  Anthony’s regard settled on the invitation with a broken seal in his grandmother’s hand. So, the moment of truth had arrived. He was to pay his debt to her by attending some ball.

  A time-to-pay-the-piper grin lifted her papery cheeks. “Lord Dayton is having a ball next week and we will attend.”

  Dayton? The man was a stick in the mud. He’d joined Prime Minister Gladstone several times on his walks in the East End in an attempt to reform prostitutes. Anthony could not imagine what a ball at his house would be like. Untrue. Sadly, he could. Instead of champagne they’d be served lemonade and tea. And during waltzes his lordship would peer down his overly long hooked nose to give haughty disapproving glares if anyone stood too close to their partner. Not to mention that the matchmaking mamas would be out in full force. He didn’t trust his grandmother. She had probably planned for him to get caught with some prim girl who she thought would make him a good wife.

  He glanced at Olivia. Lately, his mind seemed to center on someone else. Someone much closer in proximity.

  “Very well.” He outstretched his hand for the invitation. “I will make sure I attend. A deal is a deal. Even if done with the devil.”

  Grandmother’s grin widened, then she pivoted and strode out of the room, her cane tapping an almost merry tune.

  As soon as she pulled the door closed, he looked at Olivia. It was time he made pretty and apologized. “Olivia.”

  She peered at him. Her eyes were bright. Her lips were still puffy and red. Her freckled cheeks flushed. At this moment, she was the most stunning woman he had ever seen, and he wondered how he had not thought so before. The sultry look on her face made him wish he could paint, so he could save this moment in time on a miniature. One that he could carry in his pocket and glance at whenever he wished to brighten his day.

  Another knock on the door had Anthony storming toward it. He was going to throttle whoever was on the other side and take an inordinate amount of pleasure doing it. He flung the door wide.

  With an audible squeak, Menders jumped back.

  Anthony experienced a stab of guilt. He didn’t wish to give the butler a fright, but he was dashed tired of being interrupted. “What is it, Menders?”

  The man’s Adam’s apple moved in his throat, and he held up an envelope. “A messenger just delivered a note from Huntington House. It’s marked urgent.”

  “Well, hand it over, then.”

  Menders outstretched his hand holding the missive, looking as if Anthony was as rabid as a dog and might bite it.

  “Thank you.” Anthony took the message and read it.

  Good Lord. The land steward, Mr. Warren, had been severely injured while helping some men work on the water wheel at Huntington House. The man had lost two fingers and was damn lucky he’d not lost his arm.

  The butler still stood at the threshold as if sensing something dire had transpired.

>   “Menders, have a valise brought to my room and tell Cline to pack it.” He shook his head. “Never mind, I have clothes there.”

  “Are you going to Huntington House, my lord?”

  “Yes, tell the coachman I need to get to Victoria Station.”

  The butler turned to walk away.

  “Menders?”

  The servant pivoted around.

  “Is my grandmother in the blue drawing room?”

  “She is.”

  Tugging down the sleeves of his shirt, Anthony strode to his desk and picked up his cufflinks.

  “Is something wrong?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes, the land steward at Huntington House was injured. I need to go there. In my absence, will you continue working on the accounts?”

  “Of course. Is he gravely injured?”

  “It could have been worse.”

  “Will you be gone long?”

  Would she miss him, or was she just inquiring? “I’ll be back before Lord Dayton’s ball. Excuse me. I must be off, and I need to inform my grandmother.” At the door he turned around. Even if only gone for a few days, he would miss her, and that realization left him even more baffled.

  Olivia peered at him. “Safe travels.”

  “I’m sorry about earlier, Olivia,” he said, then quit the room.

  Chapter Twenty

  A week later, Olivia sat next to the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington in Lord and Lady Dayton’s ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast sparkling light over women dressed in varying shades of colorful fabrics and gentlemen in black evening attire—the starkness of their dark suits relieved by their crisp white shirts and ties.

  The dowager glanced at the stairs, leading into the ballroom. She’d done it close to a dozen times while waiting for the arrival of her grandson. “Where is that scoundrel Anthony?” the dowager muttered, her fingers flexing against the gold knob of her cane.

  “I’m sure he will be here, my lady,” Olivia said, trying to sound reassuring. Anthony had sent a note from Huntington House yesterday assuring his grandmother he would fulfill his part of the bargain and attend. The missive stated that if he was not there when they were ready to depart, he would meet them.

  From the corner of her eye, Olivia saw a well-dressed young man approaching them.

  “Not another one,” the dowager grumbled, her gaze settling on the gentleman. The old woman narrowed her eyes as if she might cause the fellow bodily harm with her cane if he ventured any closer.

  The fellow paled slightly and did an about-face.

  Since they’d arrived and settled into two of the gilded chairs that circled the perimeter of the grand room, two other fellows besides the last gentleman had started toward them, only to be scared away by the dowager’s lethal glower.

  Olivia knew why they approached her. After the dowager’s lady’s maid helped her dress and fashioned her hair, Olivia had felt like a princess, donning the yellow gown of silk that Madame Renault had created. But she was anything but a princess. They didn’t have the foggiest notion that she was only her ladyship’s companion, not some wealthy relation. It was the elaborate gown, of course. The embellishments at the hem shimmered like finely cut stones under the lights above. It was nothing short of lovely. More expensive looking than most of the other gowns worn tonight, giving the false impression of someone of great means.

  What would these highborns think if they realized that she was the Phantom?

  “I can see the attention your gown has brought upon you,” the dowager said, interrupting Olivia’s thoughts. “When you are asked who designed it make sure you inform them Madame Renault. Madame Lefleur will soon regret her chatty disposition.”

  How was she to tell anyone when the woman didn’t allow her to converse with those in attendance? It was like Olivia was a fancy jewel that was set under a glass dome. Something to be looked at, but not touched.

  Olivia smiled. In the whole of her life, she had never thought herself anything closely resembling a jewel, but at this moment she did indeed feel like one. “Yes, madam.”

  As the first notes of another waltz drifted in the air, another man started toward them. He was handsome, taller than most, with a lean waist and broad shoulders. His dark, wavy hair was a tad too long.

  She waited for the dowager to notice and shoot him her don’t-come-any-closer glare. Olivia didn’t care. She was more pleased than perturbed that the dowager scared them away. She didn’t wish to see their disdain on their faces when they learned of her station in life. And she didn’t wish to dance. Well, that was not completely true. She had enjoyed dancing with Anthony at the music hall, but he wouldn’t ask her. Not here. Not in front of these people. She released a slow breath and recalled how it had felt to be in his arms at the music hall. She’d relived it in her dreams, along with his heated kiss, more than once.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted Anthony to show up. The idea of watching him dancing with the women his grandmother wished to align him with might cause jealousy to unfurl within her. She didn’t like the feeling of such an emotion, especially when she had no right to feel it.

  The dowager finally noticed the fellow moving toward them and shot him a fierce don’t-take-another-step-toward-us expression.

  As if he found humor in the situation, one side of the man’s mouth turned upward as he held the old woman’s gaze and continued forward.

  Who was this bold fellow who ignored the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington’s glower?

  He stepped before them and his gaze shifted to Olivia. He flashed a charming smile. His startling blue eyes shifted back to the dowager. “Lady Huntington, how are you?”

  “I was doing rather well until you appeared, Lord Talbot,” she replied, her tone sharp.

  He set a hand to his chest. “Oh, how cruel you can be, my lady. You’ve wounded my pride.”

  “Doubtful. It’s too inflated by the silly twits who flutter around you as if you are the sun.”

  It was then that Olivia noticed that several women were staring at the man, their fans fluttering back and forth, while others whispered behind theirs.

  He ignored her words, or perhaps he thought them so fitting they did not deserve a response. His gaze returned to Olivia. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lovely woman who accompanied you here?”

  “I hear your father has disowned you,” the dowager replied, ignoring his question just as he had ignored her jab.

  “He has,” he replied as casually as if she’d said it was going to be overcast tomorrow. “But if you know that then you must know the reason? That a man of my father’s nature is displeased that his son has bested him in a business venture and surpassed him in income. So, him disowning me has little financial effect on my life.”

  What type of man disowns his son because of a business matter? Lord Talbot’s father sounded like a horrid person.

  “He cannot remove the fact that I am his heir,” Lord Talbot continued, “or the fact that one day I will be the Duke of Wharton.”

  A thumping started in Olivia’s ears as if she stood too close to a ringing bell in a tower. She studied the man, especially the deep blue of his eyes. How had she not seen the resemblance? She’d only known one other person with such startling blue eyes.

  Helen’s face flashed in her mind.

  This man was her brother. Had he known about Helen? Doubtful. He would have been nothing more than a child himself. And one’s father did not flaunt the fact that he’d cornered a maid and forced himself on her, then cast the child his heinous act had produced aside as if she were nothing to him.

  The dowager’s voice floated back to Olivia, drawing her from her thoughts. “Since that rascal who married my granddaughter is holidaying with her on the Continent, don’t you have business that needs to be attended to at that tea company the two of you own?”

  “But there is always time for entertainment.” His gaze returned to Olivia. “Might I have this dance, Miss Michaels?”

  “She is my compani
on. Not a relation,” the dowager informed the future duke as if this would be the trick that finally sent his lordship away in pursuit of other women. Women of his own station.

  Olivia waited to see the interest in his eyes dim, but it did not. “And a beautiful one at that.”

  Did he still wish to dance with her even though he knew she was not his equal in society’s eyes? Not even close. She was the woman who intended to rob his father of every bit of blunt she could find in his house.

  “Go on dance with him,” the dowager snapped, “so I don’t have to contend with the rascal’s impertinence.”

  Though Olivia didn’t feel like dancing with the gentleman, she could not refuse, and it might prove advantageous to learn more about the man’s father. She stood and accepted the arm Lord Talbot offered her.

  As they moved to the dance floor, he lowered his head as if to speak conspiratorially to her. “You looked like you needed saving.”

  “Saving?” she echoed.

  “Yes, from Anthony’s cantankerous grandmother. And being that you are her companion, I knew you could not.”

  “You knew my position when you approached us?”

  “Yes, Miss Michaels. I thought Anthony would appreciate me saving you.”

  Her head was spinning with thoughts. Anthony had spoken of her to this gentleman. A gentleman who was obviously a scoundrel but would one day inherit a dukedom. “You are acquainted?”

  “We are friends,” he said.

  Was this who Anthony had gone out with on those nights he’d stayed out late? She clamped her lips tight to stop herself from asking.

  “I’m partners with Anthony’s brother-in-law Lord Elliot Ralston. Ralston and I own Langford Teas.”

  She’d drank the tea many times. It shipped far and wide. Even as far as America. She knew his father owned a tea company, as well. Perhaps this is what had caused the strain between father and son. What she needed to know was more about the duke’s comings and goings. Though what information would an estranged son have?

  “I’m sorry to hear of your strained relationship with your father,” she said as they walked toward the dance floor.